Blood on the Flowers
by Shadows of a Dream
Summary: I'd never wondered what death was like. It was too much to take in. But if I had ever considered it, I could have never in a million years imagined that it would hurt this much... Rue's death in her POV. Canon, very sad. Tear-jerker. R&R please!
1. Chapter I: Hunting Song

**Blood on the Flowers**

_**Chapter I: Hunting Song**_

_Alright, Rue, _I tell myself. _You can breathe now._

Two fires down, no one in sight, now I need to keep moving. Everything's working like we planned. I can breathe now. _Inhale, Rue, _I instruct myself._ Exhale, Rue. _

I take in a big gulp of oxygen, but it's almost too much for my over-exerted lungs to handle. Suddenly, my chest is heaving – I'm choking, spitting out the air, panting. It hurts my throat in a strange way, stinging the dry skin of my throat.

Oh. I must be thirsty. Very, _very _thirsty. I can't remember the last time I had something to drink.

I'm far enough ahead of whoever might be tracking to pause for some water, aren't I? I take my water skin and try to unscrew the cap. It takes a minute because my hands are slick with sweat, and covered with dirt and mud. I notice that I have a splinter in my palm from one of the trees. I try to pull it out with my other hand, but it's stuck fast. And now my palm is bleeding.

I wipe the blood on my shirt. _When I get home, _I think, _the first thing I'm doing is taking a shower._

Ignoring the splinter for the time being, I finally unscrew the cap of my water skin. Good thing I snagged this much at the Cornucopia. It does me a lot of good when I'm moving about in the trees, far from any water source on the ground. I lean against the trunk of the tree and take a few sips. The liquid is cool and refreshing, reviving me, re-awakening my sore limbs.

I close the bottle after a short drink. Best to ration the water as much as I can. So long as I'm not dizzy or about to pass out, I'm fine.

I can't help but feel a rush of pride at having come this far. Take that, Careers! Remember that little kid that you expected to die within the first day? The twelve-year-old scavenger from District 11, the little dark-skinned girl who earned a seven from the Gamemakers, the underdog that helped drop a tracker jacker nest on your heads?

_She's outsmarting you, after all, _I think, and I feel a trickle of new energy from mocking the enemy gang, even if they're bigger than me, and they can't hear what I'm thinking.

For the first time in what feels like years, I actually smile. It feels… wrong. Like I haven't used the muscles necessary for a smile nearly enough for a twelve-year-old. My smile fades after a moment, and the panic is back. Adrenaline shoots through my whole body. My heart begins to race, pumping out a nervous, erratic beat.

Mixed with my survivor's pride is a stinging fear, a fear that floods my mind, swamps me, leaves me thrashing as I struggle against the current of terror that's pulling me under. What if the Careers figure out our deception? What if I get lost in the Arena? What if Katniss is killed? What if _I'm _killed?

If I can just hold out just a little longer, just a little longer, this will all be over, and I can go home.

_Home to what? _I can't help but mentally snarl. Home to harvesting more food I can't eat. Home to tree-swinging and grain-gathering and public whippings.

_At least, if I get home, _I remind myself, _everyone won't be trying to kill me._

District 11 might not be heaven, but it's better than this hell.

I need to put these thoughts out of my mind. They won't do me any good. I need to focus on having my slingshot handy at a moment's notice. There might not be any tributes in sight at the moment, but there's no way to tell. I should be able to get away, but if I get cornered, I'm going to need my only weapon more than ever. If I have the element of surprise on my side, I should be able to send a stone into any Career's skull before they have time to think. But if I'm caught off guard, I could be dead in a heartbeat.

_You can do this, Rue. Come on. You can do this, _I think to myself, but it doesn't help much. I remind myself why I'm fighting. For my family. For my district.

For Katniss.

I take a deep breath, sucking in all the air my lungs can hold, and then let it out in a rush as I lean forwards, perching on the tree branch like a falcon before takeoff. I bend my knees and leap, almost dive – but I'm diving _up_, leaping into the sky. The wind rushes past me, and for a split second, I'm flying. I see the clouds, the sky, the treetops, and I'm soaring above it all, free as a bird.

I catch the next branch by feel. My fingers close around it, and I can already tell, though I haven't opened my eyes yet, that it's too thin. It'll never support my weight.

In the same second that I think this, I'm instinctively swinging my legs around the tree trunk, gripping crevices in the bark with my toes. I spin up, towards the top of the tree, where it's stronger. I land perched solidly in the leaves with a crystal-clear view of the surrounding arena.

It's strange because as I look up, I almost expect to see the sunset over the fields of District 11, and the golden yellow of the rows of grain, and the countless workers milling about below me – workers I know by name, every one of them. As I look out over the Arena, I almost expect to see them, listening for the resounding call of the mockingjays that signals the end of the day's work.

At the thought of the signal, something nudges my mind, like the ghost of an old memory, or a wispy voice on the wind.

_The signal!_

Of course! I'd promised Katniss a signal at repeated intervals so she'd know I was okay. I quietly hum the four notes to myself a couple times. Not because I've forgotten them, but because they remind me of home, and I'd kill to go home.

I might have to do just that.

Trying to clear my head, I sing the notes out loud. A mockingjay attempts an echo. It's off-pitch, just slightly, so I repeat myself to the bird. It takes up the melody, and soon another joins in, and then another, and another, until the whole forest is ringing with the sound of my friends, the mockingjays, ever loyal.

At least I still have _them_. They're the closest thing I have to family out here in the wilderness. I wish I could set one of the birds loose and tell it to fly home, singing my melody. It might give my parents some comfort, knowing I'm thinking of them.

Oh, crap. The tears are starting again. My throat feels tight and my heart is skipping beats and I can't breathe, I can't think, and my vision is misting over. I swallow hard and set my jaw.

_Panem is watching you, Rue, _I tell myself. _Focus, Rue. Think! Don't be a child, _I add, but I have to fight back the thought that I still _am _a child, still am just a kid, still just want to go home to a warm bed in a warm house with a warm lullaby on my lips as I drift into a peaceful sleep.

_Cut it out! _I mentally berate myself. _Look brave, Rue, and maybe District 11 will send you some bread._

I hate this so much. All of it. I'd let myself cry it out, if only there weren't all these cameras watching my every move. I can't ever be alone out here, even in the wilderness. I hate the Hunger Games. I hate the Capitol. I hate the Districts; I hate Panem; I _hate this_. Every secondof it.

I clench my fists _hard _on the branch above me – so hard that my stupid splinter sends pain shooting through my palm. If I were clutching the tree branch any tighter, the edges would cut into my hand, and my fingers would probably start to bleed.

There's a snapping sound. I jump. Then I belatedly realize it was me. The branch I'm gripping has snapped into two splintered halves, and I realize I'd better cool it before I bring half the tree down on my head.

I blink my tears away. Once. Twice. I take a sharp, shaky breath, afraid to trust my own self-control, and I'm taking in oxygen in big gulps like someone's strangling me. I face the sun and quickly swing to the next tree.

This is easy. One hand in front of the other, seize a branch, leap, catch my fall, one hand in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Swing. Land. Swing. It's mechanical, natural, and even subconscious by now, but it's familiar, and any sort of familiarity is comforting.

Once I'm sure anyone who might have caught my trail is far behind, I pause at the top of one of the trees. Even from here, there's no sign of any of the other tributes. Part of me wishes I could catch a glimpse of Katniss or Thresh. A face of someone I know would be comforting.

I miss Thresh. He's probably out to kill me now, but I can't help but think of him. He's the only one who spoke to me since the reaping, apart from Katniss. He's… decent, I guess you could say. He has a kind of moral code, and there's something to be said for that.

He's independent, though, and I have no doubt that he would repel any thought of allying with Katniss and me. He's strong enough to fend for himself, which is good, because he's perfectly content – even happy – with riding alone.

Thresh is strong, and tenacious, and he could probably win the Hunger Games. Maybe he will. He's different, though; different from all the others. Not different like Katniss. He's still in this for blood, to be sure, but he has a good heart. He doesn't like to owe anyone anything. If you help him, he'll pay you back.

Should Thresh take the win in the games, he'll at least grant his victims merciful deaths. If I don't win, I'd like him to win.

Not as much as I'd like Katniss to win, of course. I just don't like the idea of her having to kill him.

"You might be young, but you're fast," Thresh told me just before the start of the games. "Play that up to the Gamemakers, and you could go far in this thing. A good score is all you need. That'll get you sponsors, and they're what will keep you alive."

Sure! _Sponsors_! I have this urge to scream at the top of my lungs, "Some food would be nice!" in the hopes that my supposed sponsors would hear me and send a parachute down. You know, Panem, there's a reason these are called the _Hunger _Games. I could go for some decent food. Anything besides wild berries.

I've become lost in my own head, again. I need to keep moving. I take one last glance around me, still vigilant, checking for enemy tributes – and then I freeze.

I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm a statue, an extension of the tree that I'm white-knuckling now with my good hand.

Nearby, close enough to see me, almost close enough to kill me, is the boy from District 1.

I think his name is Marvel, but I couldn't be sure. A chill shoots through my spine and radiates through me, but I'm still sweating like an animal. Marvel. A Career. A murder machine.

The District 1 tributes might have ridiculous names, but they're bred to kill.

_Has he seen me? _I can hear my own heartbeat. _Does he suspect anything? _I doubt it. He can't have seen me, he can't have. He can't have. But he's too close for me to move now. I'll give myself away, I'll get myself killed. I have to watch, and wait.

And ready my slingshot.

I frantically grip my weapon with slippery hands, (my left palm still stinging from the splinter,) and place one of my small, sharp stones in the sling. A second rolls to the ground, landing with a clatter. _Oh, shoot! _I pray that Marvel didn't see that. Why am I such a klutz? Why did they choose me for the tribute? Why won't my hands stop shaking?

I'm freaking out. I'm going to give myself away. _Stay calm, Rue! _

I must be about to snap, I must be breaking away from sanity, because I start humming to myself, like I would when someone at home was being whipped, and I couldn't look away. Whenever it became too much, I would sing.

I sing now. Quietly. Too quietly for Marvel to hear, but loudly enough that the mockingjays take up my song. _Crap! _Katniss will think I'm fine. No one will get me out of this.

Ten minutes pass. There are the longest ten minutes of my entire life.

Eventually, Marvel crashes through the brush. I crouch down in the leaves of my tree and pretend this isn't happening. Marvel is glancing around for threats, and I'm trying not to breathe, but my heart is hammering so hard and fast, and all I can think is I don't want to die, I don't want to die. I'm too young to die. I can't die. I can't!

And then I'm pulling back the slingshot and aiming for his skull. The rock snaps out of my weapon and towards Marvel.

But his reflexes are better than I predicted.

He ducks with precision timing, his fist clenching tightly around the shaft of his spear that's longer than I am tall. In a split second, that same spear is hurtling towards the trunk of my tree.

There's no time for me to jump to another branch. The trunk of my tree snaps and splinters and cracks apart in every direction, and I'm not sure if I'm jumping or falling or if I've already hit the ground, or if I will _ever _hit the ground, because everything is happening in slow motion. Then I hit the dirt, finally, and it feels like running headfirst into a stone wall.

I'm too winded to move.

Marvel suddenly has a net. I don't know where he got it from in the first place. I don't know where he pulled it from just now. And while I'm still trying to comprehend what's happening, unable to understand _why_ it's happening, that net is flying towards me. I suddenly regain my senses, and I'm thrashing about, but the net has already landed and I'm hopelessly entangled in the mesh.

I find my voice in the same second. Against all rational thought, I let out a piercing scream at the top of my lungs.

Marvel retrieves his spear from where it's lodged in the remains of the tree stump. He backs up, leaning heavily on his back leg, and I just know instinctively that he's getting into a good position from which to launch the thing at my heart.

I screech again, my voice leaping up an octave with unbridled terror. I'm so afraid. I've never been so terrified. I'm going to die – I'm going to die! Somebody help me!

_Katniss. Where's Katniss?_

Her name finally reaches my lips. "Katniss!" I wail. "Katniss!"

There's an answer from somewhere in the trees, and I'm praying she's close, forcing myself to believe she's close. "Rue!" Katniss shouts. "Rue! I'm coming!"

"Katniss!" I yell back.

Then she breaks into the clearing, her bow raised to attack, the string pulled taught, an arrow at the ready. I reach through the mesh of the net, desperately trying to get her attention. "Katniss!" _I'm over here, I'm over here…_

Without warning, there's a whistle of something arcing through the air. Before it can register in my mind that Marvel has thrown the spear, the point stabs deeply into my stomach.

**A/N: **I will continue up until Rue's death, with Katniss' song, but I don't have time to complete chapter two now, and I thought this was a good place to cut it off. Please review. _Please_. This is my first Hunger Games FanFic; I just read book one for the first time, and I'm becoming obsessed, so no spoilers, please, and give me your honest opinions. Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames, on the other hand, will earn you a trip to the administrators.

Thanks! Review, please!


	2. Chapter II: Lullaby

_**Chapter II: Lullaby**_

Pain beyond description explodes in my chest. It hurts so much I think I _have _to scream, as loud as I can, until my lungs burst from the stress – but my voice is gone.

I try to sit up, but I'm shaking so badly. The pain intensifies. The spear in my chest begins to vibrate with the rest of my body, tearing the hole in my skin open even further. I know immediately that I can't move. The net is tangled all around me, all around the spear, and the spear is being forced deeper and deeper into my body the more I strain against the mesh.

My whole stomach is on _fire_. I want to wail and shriek and plead with Katniss to do something, to make it stop, to get the blade out of me.

Abruptly, there's a sound – another rush of air. The high-pitched keening of a weapon launching at its target.

_Another spear?_

It must be. It is. I'm going to die here.I want to run but I can't. I can't! But where did the second spear come from? How many weapons could one tribute possibly have? I force myself to roll onto my side, and every muscle screams with anguish as I shift my weight, desperately struggling to get away, just get away.

My head feels like a stone, so heavy, but I manage to lift it a few inches off the dirt just in time to see an arrow shoot directly into Marvel's neck.

_Katniss' arrow!_ Not my attacker's spear…

I watch him die. It's happening very quickly for him, and I wonder why it's taking me so long.

Marvel doesn't even scream, probably because the arrow either pierced his windpipe, his throat muscles, or some part of his lungs. That's a safe assumption to make because he's bleeding out buckets of blood. He yanks the arrow out with one hand in silent horror, his blank eyes glazed over, bulging like a fish's. There's a crash as he doubles over backwards and hits the dirt. He lands so sharply I think he must have broken his spine. He gasps for air, but he's bleeding too much. He's drowning in the blood. The bright-red pool widens rapidly, staining the dirt, the grass, the body of Marvel that's starting to twitch and flail as it tries to stand back up.

My stomach heaves, both with pain and sudden nausea. I want to retch. Everything I've eaten all day would come flying back up if there weren't a spear lodged in my chest. I convulse, and the movement drives the spear in even further. I can feel it.

I'm afraid to actually look.

"Are there more?" Katniss is shouting, still poised to fire another arrow. "Are there more?"

_No, _I think, but I can't speak. _No, _I manage to mouth. I finally find my voice. "No, no, no…"

What does it matter if there are more? What does anything matter? _I'm dying._ I'm dying!

Anything could happen now. They told me I'd never be selected as tribute, and I was. I told them no one could ever catch me, and I've been caught. Marvel could come back from the dead right now, still alive for just long enough to stab Katniss to death, and I wouldn't be surprised.

There's a cutting sound. A knife. I look up and flinch when I see a blade inches from my face – but it's Katniss, only Katniss, cutting me free of the net. But what good will this do? What does it matter if I can see the sky while I bleed to death?

_I want to go home, _I think. It sounds so impossible now. The whole idea sounds so hollow in these woods, so childish.

I start to whimper. The sound is very young, very terrified, and I suddenly feel like a little girl again. Too young to be a tribute. Too young to die. Most definitely too young to die like _this_, stabbed through the heart, or stomach, or whatever vital thing it is that the spear is in. I shouldn't have to die like _this. _No one should.

Katniss takes one look at me before the tears start to pour down her face – big, wet drops. She swallows, trying to hold them back. She says nothing, but she crouches down, dropping to her knees beside me. She stares at my wound wordlessly, glaring at the embedded weapon, and I can see the horror and anger and fear and denial mingled together, plain on her face. Her eyes are blazing, wet as they are.

My wound must be bad, very bad, or she would be comforting me. I finally force myself to look down and almost want to throw up again. The spearhead is buried up to the shaft in the flesh and muscle of my chest. Blood is pouring out, and already it's splattered on the spear, on my clothes, on the ground all around me.

It hurts worse now that I've seen it. Hot, fiery agony rips through my chest like claws tearing me apart from the inside.

I'd never wondered what death was like. It was too much to take in. But if I had ever considered it, I could have never in a million years imagined that it would hurt this much.

_Does all of Panem really have to watch? _I think. _Does anyone care? Is anyone crying? _I'm sure they're not. I'm sure they're cheering, this is such wonderful entertainment. _Does anybody want me to survive? _Not many, I'm sure. I'm just one of the little kids to be weeded out before the real fun begins. It's too bad for the people who actually placed bets on me. What a tragedy.

_Does anyone want me to live? _I think, and in my head I'm screaming. _Do I matter to anybody?_

My District? No. My family, definitely. But they're not here. And I'm dying. Dying!

Why did I waste time and get myself caught? Why am I so stupid? Why was Marvel even here in the first place? They have enough food at the Careers' base. Unless –

I can't think. Questions hurt. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts.

I reach out for Katniss' hand and clutch it like a lifeline. It feels cold. I must be very warm for her hand to feel cold. She squeezes my palm like that can keep me breathing.

"You blew up the food?" I whisper. It's the only explanation I can think of, as ridiculous as it sounds.

"Every last bit," Katniss says.

I swallow. Tears and blood and sweat and pain are weighing me down. I cough once, fiercely, and choke out, "You have to win."

"I'm going to. Going to win for both of us now."

A cannon sounds. I think for a second that maybe they know I'm right about to die, but then I remember Marvel, dead in his own blood.

He's gone. Dead. Taken care of. There's nothing left for Katniss to stay for. But I need her. I need someone, anyone, right now, or I swear, I'm just going to shriek like a banshee and rail at the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the Hunger Games.

"Don't go," I say. I try to tighten my grip on Katniss' hand, but my strength is failing.

"Course not. Staying right here." She moves in closer to me, pulling my head onto her lap. She gently, delicately lifts my hair and brushes it behind my ear.

I wish I were home right now. I wish it was my mother holding my hand. I wish I had the mockingjays gathered around me, singing me a lullaby. I wish I had music. Any music at all would be better than the weak cadence of my faltering, irregular breathing.

_A song…_

I look at Katniss. "Sing," I say, so quietly that I can barely hear myself. I can't talk any louder anymore.

Katniss gives a hoarse, rough cough. She swallows hard. She begins to sing.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

I try to pretend that's where I am. Deep in a meadow, lying under a willow tree, the soft grass beneath me, the mockingjays humming melodies… The anguish is too much.

I try to hold on to Katniss' words.

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

I'm bleeding to death. There's a spear in my chest. My eyes aren't going to open! Why is she bothering to lie to me?

Maybe there's heaven. Maybe that's what she means. I try to picture a divine forest, budding with flowers in every color – a world without tears or pain or death or mourning.

Katniss' song is soothing.

I'll see her again someday, see everyone I love again, and there won't be any Hunger Games anymore.

I allow my eyes to flutter closed, my eyelids feel so heavy, my body feels so numb, I can't hold on anymore. And I don't have to.

I can see it all so clearly now, beneath my closed eyelids – like a vision from on high. Katniss meeting my family at the golden gates of the most beautiful garden imaginable. Heavenly strains of music floating on the cool, crisp wind. My world without hunger, without tributes, without the spear I can't stop thinking about –

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

My breathing is so slow, so quiet, I can't hear it at all, even though Katniss' song has paused. I feel so safe, so warm, surrounded by daisies… My dreams will come true, Katniss, and so will yours, if you just hold on, hold on, don't stop fighting…

Something cool is dripping on my face. I can't open my eyes to see what it is, but I taste salt and I know it's tears. My tears? Katniss' tears? The tears of some angel, come to take me away?

The last lines of the song are barely audible, but they cover me like a blanket, promising me hope. Always hope. Always dreams. No more pain…

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

Maybe the tears are washing my troubles away. They must be angels' tears. But why would an angel be crying?

I focus on the image of the meadow, far away. Leaves arranged in an elegant cloak on the trees and bushes. A ray of moonlight setting the clearing aglow.

I'm not scared anymore. I can't feel my body, I can't hear anything but the song, but I'm not afraid.

I'm going to heaven, Katniss, and I know I'll see you there in the meadow with the leaves and the moonbeam and the dandelions, and your troubles will wash away, too. You'll see. I promise, I'm not leaving you forever.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

There's a flash of blinding white light. A surge of unbearable pain. The sound of the mockingjays singing Katniss' song.

Then darkness closes over and around me.

**A/N: **Thanks to my _lone reviewer! _Come on, people, review! Please!

Also, to my lone reviewer: I set out to make my readers cry. This sounds cruel, but… I hope you're bawling your eyes out. I tried to make this tragic, so thanks for the validation!


	3. AN: Announcement Please Read!

**A/N: **Hey, Hunger Games fanatics. It's official. I'm becoming _obsessed _with this series, and I'm planning to start book two soon.

Thanks a million to those who reviewed this story. I seriously, in all due honesty, started jumping up and down screeching "I made someone cry!" I set out to write a tragic Fic, and the feedback made me ecstatic, literally.

As for why I'm adding this third chapter, I wanted to inform all of you awesome people that I'm starting another Rue FanFic. After seeing how much you all liked this, I'm going to write in Rue's POV again – this time, her thoughts upon awaking as a muttation. Katniss had some speculations on their psychology, but the book never explored it in depth. That's what I intend to do. I'm going to show the world through the eyes of mutant Rue.

Gosh, using "mutant" and "Rue" in the same sentence feels so… wrong. But it's going to be a blast writing it. I'll try and get the first chapter up today, possibly. Please, please read and review if you liked this.

I'm not trying to be a pain in anyone' s rear, but the feedback meant so much to me. And honestly, I would never be bothering to start the next story if not for the feedback I got on "Blood on the Flowers". So, thank you, and may the odds be _ever _in your favor.

If you have any advice on the mutt psychology, additional canon details from somewhere in book 2 or 3 that I haven't read yet, or opinions on the overall concept, then go ahead and leave me your opinion in a review. I might not use all the advice I get, but feel free to give it.

I will leave you with some timeless Haymitch wisdom: Stay alive. If you can do that, your life should be pretty sweet. Hahahahahaha! ;)


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